


Boots

by unsettled



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock Holmes (2009) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hans invites Mark to go horseback riding with him. …other activities ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=linndechir).



> Blackwood/Coward exchange fic for linndechir who wanted something with Mark/Hans and Hans' love of horses. And boots. I … may have made up a lot of stuff about Hans' riding ability and family and home.  
> Also, so very sorry Brits. The only thing I'm sure I got right are the horses.

It's one of those freakishly warm winter days when Mark finally takes Hans up on his offer to go riding together.

Months ago, weeks and weeks and weeks ago, they'd been eating lunch together on set, half listening to Robert ramble on about something, when talk had turned to what awaited them after Holmes was wrapped up. Hans had Clash coming up, and Mark had Robin Hood, although he'd complained half jokingly about "another epic 'let's see how long we can make Mark stay on a horse'".

"You don't like horses?" Hans had asked.

"I like them well enough," Mark had replied. "It's just been long enough since the last time I had to do any riding that it's going to take a bit to get back into it."

Hans had flicked a glance at him, stealing his breath with those vividly blue eyes. If he hadn't met Hans in person, he'd have been convinced they owed their color onscreen to the wonders of editing.

"My parents still keep horses at their farm," he'd said. "I go out for a weekend whenever I can; you could brush up your skills, if you'd like. It'd be nice to have someone to ride with."

Mark had blinked. "I – I'll think about it," he'd replied, trying not to think too hard about the possibility of time – alone – with Hans. "That might be, um, nice."

Apparently reassured that he hadn't made a mistake in offering, Hans had grinned at him. "Just give me a call some day the weather's half decent, and I'll get free."

Mark didn't know how he was supposed to concentrate on anything when Hans looked like _that_.

*

Hans doesn't have anything to wiggle out of when Mark calls – "but I would have anyway; I'd much rather go riding" – and gives him directions to a small farm in what seems like the middle of nowhere. Mark pulls up, uncertain if he's at the right place; then Hans steps out of a barn, and Mark's mouth nearly drops open. Hans is dressed in a blue sweater and tan riding pants of some sort, and looking far too delectable for comfort – but what kills Mark is those _boots_. Tall and dark and gleaming and _oh god_ he tears his eyes away from them.

"Um," he says, and he could nearly slap himself.

"Hey," Hans says, with a small, welcoming smile. "Come on."

The stable is warm and smells more of hay and leather and sweet grain than anything else, and there are a number of inquisitive noses poking out of stall doors. It turns out Hans has been waiting for him, for he already has two horse tacked up and ready to go. Mark's mount is dozing in the aisle, one hoof cocked up and ears hanging floppily. It's a tall, well muscled bay cob type, with calm eyes and a slight roman nose and two white feet. Hans introduces him as Bell, and blushes when Mark raises an eyebrow.

"Short for Bellerophon." He grins. "I was nine. What can I say? It stuck, despite that it couldn't fit him less."

There's something about the image of a nine year old horse mad Hans that makes Mark want to grin like an utter idiot.

Hans' mount is a leggy, antsy grey, with that tucked up look runners have. "Sterling," he says. "Ex racer. He's still a bit of a twit, but he's calmed down considerably." He slaps the horse on the shoulder; it turns it'd head toward Hans and snorts.

"There's a spot I want to show you," Hans tells him after they've mounted and rounded the house, heading for the woods out back. It's been quite a while since Mark's done any horseback riding, and it's never been something he felt like doing in his spare time; but Hans' horse is a patient one and he finds he's enjoying the ride.

He's definitely enjoying the time with Hans, who keeps up a steady stream of chatter – only it's not as mindless as chatter; he's full of short, funny stories and little observations and clever words, and yeah, Mark's missed it, now that Holmes is over.

He hasn't been paying much attention to the path, so he's startled when Hans stops talking. "Damnit," Hans says, sharply, and Mark looks away from him to the path.

There's a large tree blocking the trail. Hans looks furious. "I swear," he says. "This wasn't here last week."

Mark shrugs. "It's no big deal."

Hans scowls, and still looks ridiculously pretty. "I really wanted to show you," he mutters, and urges his horse forward to the tree. On horseback, he's tall enough to look over it, and he peers over for a moment before he wheels away. "Let me just see," he says, and Mark doesn't have a clue what he's planning.

Hans trots back down the path a bit, while Mark watches, bemused, right up until the moment Hans urges Sterling into a canter and heads straight for the lowest part of the tree – which is still too high for Mark's comfort and what is Hans _thinking_ , he's going to get hurt…

For a moment, his heart in his throat, Mark thinks they're going to do it; and then Sterling ducks his head and plants his feet and comes to a screeching halt a few feet shy of the tree. Hans, however, doesn't stop, and goes tumbling right over Sterling's ears, landing in the dirt with a thump.

"Oh my god," Mark breathes, and then he's half falling out of the saddle in his rush to get to Hans. Who sits up before Mark can even reach him, and – he's laughing, the stupid sod.

"Well, that'll teach me to show off." Hans shakes his head. Sterling bumps his shoulder with his nose and Hans swats at him. "Yes, you big lummox, your fault. Ack." He pulls off his helmet, hair sticking up in every direction, and glances up at Mark, who's still standing, frozen, a few feet from him. "Give me a hand?" he asks, holding out one.

"You're ok?" Mark asks. Hans nods. Mark grasps his hand and pulls him up, and then; "You _idiot_. What if you'd been hurt? What if…"

Hans jerks back, surprised. "What?" he blurts, and then seems to take in the expression on Mark's face. "I'm fine! No, really, I'm fine; I've taken worse falls than that little tumble. It's not a big deal." He waves a hand. "I've worked with jumpers before," he says. "I wasn't being reckless, just … silly."

Mark stares at him a moment. "Right," he says. Closes his eyes a second, and then opens them. "Right. Ok. You're fine. Ok."

Hans bends down to pick up the riding whip he'd dropped. When he looks back at Mark, his expression is slightly – guilty, maybe? Apologetic? "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean – I didn't think it would upset you." He hesitates, and then, quietly, "Do you want to head back?"

"No," Mark says without even thinking. "No. I just – let's take a break for a couple minutes, yeah?" He pulls off his own helmet and sets it on a convenient tree stump; or rather, starts to.

Hans whaps his wrist with the riding crop, lightly, playfully, but still serious. Mark freezes, his eyes widening, and glances at Hans.

Hans is watching him, mischief always on his face, but it's – there's a darkening of his eyes that's hesitant, that's a held breath, wondering if he's – it's up to Mark, to say nothing, or say just the wrong thing that will make Hans' smile turn to the bright, wounded thing no one likes to see.

He turns his hand up and grabs the end of the crop, tugs it, lets his mouth curl up into amusement. "Give me that," he says. "What are you, Holmes?"

Hans' smile widens, grows, and he laughs. "Robert did get rather attached to that bit of nonsense, didn't he? But that stump – it's got poison oak on it. You really don't want to touch it."

Mark huffs. Hans lets go his end of the crop, raises his hands in mock surrender. The palms are still dirty. "If he hadn't stopped, I think even Guy would have gotten annoyed with his star." Mark flips the crop in his fingers, till he's holding the handle. He swats back at Hans, and Hans laughs, tilts his head back and grins so wide and tempting. Mark pokes him in the neck, right in that hollow where he can see the pulse beating, where he wants to touch, to lick.

"Don't you start," Hans says, only there an edge to his voice, a slightly breathless rasp, and if Mark didn't know better he'd swear Hans had shivered. He pokes him again, and there it is, in the tiny, sharp inhalation of breath before Hans snickers, in the way he flushes, creeping up from under his shirt. Mark considers.

Maybe…

He gives in. Draws the crop back ever so slightly, till it's just brushing the skin, and drops it the length of Hans' neck, trailing down to catch on the collar of his shirt, to pull it down. Hans swallows.

Looks over at Mark, a little worried and a little hesitant and a whole lot wanting, eyes wide and dark and asking something that Mark can't quite understand. There's silence, too much silence, and – maybe he's made a mistake.

He pulls the crop away, dropping Hans' gaze, trying to think of something to say to make it a joke, make it … something to laugh about, something less awkward because he didn't want Hans to stop asking for his company, not because of something like this …

"Please," Hans says. Mark's eyes whip up.

Hans is staring at him, all want and need and desperation and _yes please don't go_. Mark takes a deep breath, releases it; reaches out and pulls Hans in closer.

Hans comes to him, so willingly, whimpers out a " _Finally_ ," and Mark can't have him doing that, can't have him saying anything so revealing. He silences him with lips and tongue and teeth, like he's wanted to ever since the first day he'd seen that ridiculous smile, since he'd watched him all but eye fuck Robert on set and thought of dragging him off and taking advantage of the fact that no one was interested in anyone but Robert and Jude and their antics.

It's as good as he'd hoped – fantasized – no, it's _better_. Hans presses against him and whines into his mouth, settles his open legs on either side of Mark's thigh and grinds into him, utterly shameless, and Mark could definitely, definitely get used to this. Hans doesn't seem to know quite what he wants, aside from _more_ , and _please_ , and _ohgodyes_ , so Mark makes the decision for him, indulges himself in the other thing he's wanted for far too long.

He's still holding that whip, and he moves to toss it aside, somewhere out of the way; Hans grabs his wrist. "No," he whispers. "Keep it."

Which is all very well and good and _god_ , the thought of Hans arching up into the sting of a crop is infinitely appealing, but right now he's something else in mind. He thinks for a moment, running his thumb over Hans' bottom lip, Hans turning his face into Mark's palm, ghosting warm breaths across his fingers.

Very distracting.

Mark shakes his head. Makes up his mind, and sticks the end of the crop in the top of Hans' boots, those gorgeous boots that blindsided him when Hans walked out of the barn this morning. Hans' hands tighten on Mark's sides. He unbuckles Hans' belt, opens his pants and shoves them down a bit, just enough to expose those jutting hip bones, and kneels. Presses a kiss to that knob of bone and feels Hans shudder under his lips.

He drops his hands to Hans' calves, cupping them, the smooth feel of leather under his fingers as he takes Hans into his mouth, finally – finally – learning the salt sweet taste of him, the weight of Hans on his tongue, the heady smell of him. He moans around Hans' cock, overwhelmed, and Hans echoes him, curls his fingers into Mark's shoulders. " _Oh_ ," he moans.

Mark brings one hand up, brushes fingers along the slickened skin of Hans' cock and slides one into his mouth alongside it. Pulls it back out, wet and shining, and trails it down the knobs of Hans' spine, hooking it in the waistband, pulled down not quite far enough. Still, it's enough to tease, and Mark slides his finger between Hans' asscheeks. Hans makes a gasping, needy sound and tries to spread his legs further apart, tries not to rock forward into Marks' mouth, or back against his fingers. He shaking, and Mark's sure he won't last much longer. His finger touches puckered skin and he pushes in, slowly, so slowly, sucking as he does; Hans gives a half swallowed cry and curls forward, hands clutching at Mark as he comes, body twitching and shuddering and come heavy and nearly bitter in Mark's mouth.

He's gasping out breaths, loudly and without any control, swaying. Mark releases his cock and looks up; for a moment he thinks Hans will stay standing, and then his knees buckle and Mark catches him, lowers him to kneel, leaning forward against Mark.

His hands are still caught in Mark's shirt, and he pants against Mark's neck, all lidded eyes and trembling aftershocks and still, still too gorgeous to be believed. Mark can't resist; he turns his face to Hans' and kisses him.

Hans sighs into his mouth, quiet, content, and then drops a hand down, to rest on the fabric over Mark's cock, still hard and wanting. He presses kisses into Mark's neck as he curls his hand around Mark's cock, strokes it just shy of too gently, too slow, too drawn out. Hans' other hand comes to rest against the patch of skin between shirt and pants, tracing signs over it, and Mark tenses and "Hans," he moans. " _Hans_."

When he's capable of actual thought again, he opens his eyes to Hans, leaning over him, smug and drowsy. "You're a mess," he tells Mark, and Mark makes a face at him.

"Not my fault I'm lying on the _ground_. And you don't look much better." Which is an utter _lie_ , because Mark can't imagine Hans looking anything other than lovely.

Hans smiles, and Mark can't stop himself from reaching out and touching his lips, following the curve of them with his fingertips. "We'd better get back," Hans says against them.

Mark sighs, but he agrees. Besides, there's sure to be somewhere more comfortable to continue this than here.

They round up the horses – or rather, Hans rounds up the horses – who haven't strayed any further than the nearest shady patch of tall grass. The ride back is quiet, slow – there's an almost hazy quality to the air that lingers right up to the stable, through the motions of untacking the horse and settling them in. It's broken when they return to the house, when Mark is reminded that there are in fact other people in the world. Hans' parents are really nice people, but there's nothing like knowing you've just sucked their son off in the woods to kill casual conversation.

It doesn't help that all he can think of is how soon they can do it again.

The answer is quite soon, as Mark opens the door to his guest room that night to find Hans – naked but for a pair of tall, sleek boots – lying on his bed. Hans pulls a leg up, lets it fall open as he curls a hand around his leather clad ankle.

"I thought I saw you lusting after these," he says.


End file.
